Plain Hospitality
by Arithanas
Summary: SUMMARY: 1622, Paris. A rich house is not one that have everything, it's the one which is most welcoming. Pre-book fiction. Grimaud POV. DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.
1. Plain Hospitality

**Plain Hospitality  
><strong>by Arithanas

My master and I, as usual, had a set-to again, and as a penance my master left me home alone. I rather prefer him to beat my hide, because it's a hard punishment.

Sometimes, I regretted my master and his decisions. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help it.

Paris was a wonderful, big city, but we lived in a place that was just half the space of his private chamber in La Fère. We kept bouncing against with each other. I had my temper, which was more mild than his, and there was only one logical consequence: we argue and discuss and fight. Let me tell you, it's hard to do it without shouting, nevertheless we did it quite frequently. He lacked his peace and quiet, I lacked the tools of my trade; he missed his contact with polite company, I missed someone to help me to keep up with his train of life; he wanted to be free of money troubles, I wanted to have enough free time. So every time the door was closed behind us, we locked horns in complete silence.

He paid me enough attention to argue with me. I liked to take care of him.

I had to acknowledge it, any other man could break my bones at the first sign of rebellion, but he was more or less self-possessed and only meet his powers to beat me when I, deliberately or by mistake, failed to comply his orders. An even then, he was quite fair with the force of his punishment.

So, here I was in this early February evening, bored and sitting next to the door, waiting for my master. My job, done. With no projects for the future and no ideas about how to spend my time-out, I felt so useless.

I was starting to snooze when some heavy steps on the stair move me into action. I was so happy because my master returned early. I opened the door and almost did the same with my mouth, grateful for not being alone. The person in front of me was not my master, but his friend, M. Porthos. He stood there, high and proud in his battered clothes and his muddy boots. My heart sank hard, but it sprang up when he smiled at me, a simple, friendly gesture, I could pay him some simple courtesy: I bowed my head in a respectful welcoming sign.

"Is your master home, Grimaud?" M. Porthos asked a little embarrassed, somehow his voice made me understand that he felt his presence was an imposition.

I shook my head and pointed inside the apartment, trying to invite him in.

"May I come in if your master's absent?"

My master never gave me instructions against visits, and M. Porthos was his new friend. He made my master happy when they found each other in the taverns, my master even invited him to dinner one night. I cleared him the way and let him trod into my master's house with his big, dirty boots. He surveyed the room, my master's absence was evident, the door of his chamber was closed. With a grunt he choose to sit by the window in the big divan. I followed him and made the sign of pouring something in a tankard.

"Yes, Grimaud," he said with a sad smile, "a little wine is fine."

I ran to seek for a tumbler and one of the bottles. In my way to him, I took a wet rag to clean off the tracks of his boots from the wood floor. I served his wine and gave him the bottle, for I knew he was quick to drain the glasses, then, trying to not make a big fuss I went to my knees and washed the mud before it dried and got harder to clean. There was not words to express my satisfaction at hard work. That was how I was raised.

"You are a hard worker, aren't you?" The voice of M. Porthos' surprised me. Maybe I fumbled it when I rushed to clean the floors, "My father was a hard worker too, not a servant, but a merchant..."

I watched him, my head tilted. M. Porthos wanted to talk and I was not used to small chat.

"Am I boring you, fool?" M. Porthos asked, my silence annoyed him.

I made some fast and simple signs, trying to explain him about the wood and the mud and his boots and my surprise but he seemed to understanding it a little wrong.

"So be it: Come here and clean my boots."

I shrugged. Having something to do is good for me and better for his boots. I picked up my tools and I sat in front of him, ready to make his boots clean. M. Porthos made himself comfortable while I placed the rag under his feet and brushed off the mud.

"Grimaud, you are a good domestic servant, did your master know it?" He asked me and I gave an affirmative sign and a smile. Surely he knows it, although he never said it. "He is a lucky man. You are here when he return from his service, you have his meals ready, but you don't ask him about his day, do you?" I chuckled while nodding. He was my master, I was not his wife. "But he don't care. That lucky bastard didn't need someone to talk. Do you miss talking?"

That was a tricky question. I was born chatty, or so it was informed to me when I was younger, I love gossip, good stories and a good joke, and none of those could be done properly without a voice that could be heard. But I really didn't need to talk with my master, proof enough was that we had an argument today. I shook my head.

"I do. I had many brothers and sisters. We were a loud bunch, and I was the shy one" I beamed him a smile. M. Porthos was trying to pull my leg. "I'm serious here, you dumb fool!" I ducked to evade his slap. "I lost a brother at the Battle of Ponts-de-Cé and he was this gift of tongues or, at least a personality that didn't allow you to ignore him..."

M. Porthos really loved that brother, I was sure, so I let him pour the praise of his lost brother over my head while I polish his old boots with grease until they shone. Soon, I found myself hearing about his childhood in Picardy with my tools in it's case and wondering if I should offer myself to mend his clothes, but that could fill him with shame because it will make apparent that his clothes need a good patch up.

"I miss my country, Grimaud, and my little home in the Valley." I nodded sympathetically, I miss La Fère too. "I hate to enter my house where there is only silence and obscurity. I'm far to used to being surrounded of familiar faces and with the aroma of my ma's good homemade food."

It dawned to me that M. Porthos was a lonely man. He needed a wife or at least a valet. I put my fingers together and placed them next to my mouth. It was a simple sign, even a baby could understand it.

"Do you want to know what my ma used to cook?" I nodded. "A lot of things, she made a veal to die for, with carrots and radishes; and her _pot-au-feu_ was a real delicacy, you never find food like that here in Paris." I agreed frantically. "So, do you like to eat well too? Let me tell you something and you will keep me the secret, won't you?"

I made a sign to make him understand I'd keep the secret with my life.

"Some days ago, it was Candlemas, isn't it?" I nodded, I still kept some _crêpes_ in the pantry. "I was doing my patrol and found a woman making _crêpes_ in a corner and I remembered my mother. She made the most wonderful _crêpes_ with ham and mushrooms and that little yellow onions. I almost cried, Grimaud, I miss her so much!"

I saw his face, it was blatantly obvious that he was longing his home and his mother. I wished that I could miss my mother too. I mimicked the action of pulling out some coins from a purse and he understood me.

"No, I didn't buy her _crêpes_. I had no voice, you senseless dumb!"

I sprang to my feet and took his hand, I had an idea but I need M. Porthos' help. I guide him and made him sit at the table. M. Porthos was dumbfounded but curious. I went to the pantry and pulled out the _crêpes_, they were made of buckwheat_ crêpes_ but they could pass; I got a bunch of button mushrooms and a shallot, which I show to him because I need him to confirm it was the yellow onion he talked about.

"Yes! That were the onions she used!" M. Porthos was excited because our pantry was well stocked. "Are you going to make me some _crêpes_?"

I nodded. The duty of hospitality demanded me to make him feel better. If my master wanted to beat me for feeding his friend, so be it. I minced the shallot and the mushrooms, M. Porthos collaborated with observations about the texture and the size, he instructed me to sauté them on a pan which I did under his expert eyes. Soon the mixture was cooked at his satisfaction.

"We need ham!" M. Porthos exclaimed, his tongue caressed his upper lip in the immemorial sign of hungry.

I pointed at him the rest of a pork leg that my master bought last December, it wasn't' too much but it would suffice for the _crêpes_. He took it down and cut some fine slices before telling me how to assembly his childhood dish. A piece of ham went over the _crêpe_ and then the sauteed mushrooms, I rolled them tightly and placed them on a dish, asking him if it was enough.

"A little bit of cheese would make them perfect," was M. Porthos' answer.

I grated some cheese over them, that seemed more or less all right to me, but M. Porthos had another opinion.

"Where is the oven?" he asked me and I signaled him that I didn't understand his petition. "You need to put them in the oven to gratinate the cheese."

That was a serious trouble. We have no oven at the apartment and my master had explicitly forbidden to ask his landlady for her oven. I racked my brains and come with a non-prefect solution. I open the pantry wide and came with a couple of metal dishes I could put the _crêpes_ between them and slide them under the fire, that would gratinate the cheese.

"Is that cream, Grimaud?" M. Porthos asked while I was transferring his _crêpes_ to the metal dish. I nodded, because I was keeping a quarter of cream to make me some sweet tidbit. "Could you beat an egg in the cream and pour it over them?"

I never hear of that, but it I could do it. I mixed those ingredients and tasted the liquid. Tasty, but strange. I poured it over the contents of the dish and place it under the wood. M. Porthos could barely seat still in his place while we waited for the result. I wriggled my hands trying to make him understand how worried I was because I didn't know if they will turn out right.

"Don't worry," M. Porthos said with a smile. "I'm sure they will be edible."

I chuckled, too glad to see him smile.

...

**A/N:** Many thanks for Storyloverandteller101, who provide the prompt. My apologies if any anachronism is presented.


	2. Addendum

_**Addendum**_

Athos climbed up the stairs, tired from his service and bored of the company on M. de Treville antechambers. Sometimes he wonder why he spend his days trying to fit among the musketeers, it didn't matter how prestigious the corps was, the problem remain the same: he was not a good company and people just make him feel groggy and with an imperious need to sleep; it was getting harder to keep the facade and make the people believe he could take care of himself.

He almost dragged his feet on the steps.

An unusual sound caught his fancy. A deep happy laugh sounded from the other side of his door, that was not the voice of his domestic. Besides, Grimaud had no reasons to laugh. For a brief moment, the idea of his servant having visits flooded his mind, but that was impossible, not without his consent. His hand pushed the door and the unmistakable aroma of home cooking slapped his nose. Athos checked the fly of the stair, to check up again if that was his dwelling.

Inside, Porthos was seated in his place, a dish in front of him, and with Grimaud pouring some wine in his tumbler. Those two seemed to be having a wonderful time.

"They are not like my ma's , Grimaud, but they are good!"

"What is good, Porthos?" Athos asked, trying to control his temper.

At the sound of his voice Grimaud quivered, his shaky hands had to put the bottle in the table. That rascal knew he was at fault and Athos was preparing his tirade when Porthos laughed again and pointed at Athos with a wooden spoon.

"You should try them, Athos!" Porthos said, he made some strange sign with the spoon. "These _crêpes_ are just too good."

Athos sighed, there was food at the table, wine in the bottle and table companion who was not a complete idiot. He could settle the score later with his valet.

"Fix me some of those, Grimaud."

"You won't regret it," Porthos said attacking his dish once again.

"To what do I owe this honor, Porthos?" Athos asked, watching Grimaud's hands work.

"I was bored, _diable!_" Porthos answered quickly but his eyes shoot a small warning look to Grimaud. "Since you was not here, I took advantage of your valet and your pantry."

Porthos stated it with candor, trying to mind his manners at the table. Athos pondered the situation, it was good to return to an apartment filled with people, and Grimaud seemed happy for the first time since they settled in Paris. They could benefit from expanding their social circle.

"Feel free to drop over whenever you want, Porthos," Athos accepted when his valet placed a hot dish in front of him.


End file.
